


Common Sense (Gimli)

by kathkin



Series: A Few Notes in the Song of Creation (a Lord of the Rings Dæmon AU) [6]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Daemons, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-02
Updated: 2018-06-02
Packaged: 2019-05-17 11:40:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14831592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kathkin/pseuds/kathkin
Summary: If one was going to keep one’s soul outside one’s body – which was an absurd thing to do – one ought to keep it in something strong, something indestructible. If dwarves had vessels for their souls, they would be armoured, carven of metal or stone. Heavy, strong and impermeable to harm.Gimli gets to know the secret ways of dæmons - and Frodo - a little better.





	Common Sense (Gimli)

**Author's Note:**

> a) Wikipedia on [dæmons](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/D%C3%A6mon_\(His_Dark_Materials\)).
> 
> b) [Ground rules for this AU](http://penny-anna.tumblr.com/post/174266827343/ground-rules-for-d%C3%A6mon-au).
> 
> c) See end notes for dæmon key!

There were a hundred things about Men that betrayed their lack of common sense, but none more concerning than dæmons.

If one was going to keep one’s soul outside one’s body – which was an absurd thing to do – one ought to keep it in something strong, something indestructible. If dwarves had vessels for their souls, they would be armoured, carven of metal or stone. Heavy, strong and impermeable to harm.

An animal was soft, tender, easily destroyed. But at least _most_ of them had the sense to choose something sturdy.

Boromir, Gimli thought, was the only member of the company who was doing it right. A wolf was a powerful beast, easily strong enough to defend itself if needs be. If Gimli _had_ to have a dæmon, he’d – well, he’d choose a bear, but a wolf would be a strong second choice.

Aragorn’s dæmon was more fragile but it was a formidable beast nonetheless and though Gimli would never choose a bird for himself – never choose any shape that didn’t keep his feet firmly on the ground – he could see the use of a dæmon who could fly.

The hobbits’ dæmons unnerved him more so. Pippin hadn’t yet chosen a form and his dæmon would keep flitting into the shape of especially soft and vulnerable animals – frogs, mice, once an earthworm. Sam’s dog struck him as only slightly less vulnerable, but then, he supposed, dogs were tough wee beasts and there was something to be said for their sharp hearing and their noses.

Merry was the only hobbit who had the right idea. A fox was an excellent shape for someone who wasn’t a fighter, quick and quiet and easy to hide.

He could understand all of them, up to a point, bar one. When it came to Frodo and his peculiar dæmon, Gimli couldn’t imagine what the hobbit had been _thinking_.

Three days into their journey he could bear it no longer. He took Frodo aside one morning, into the shade of one of the great rocks that were scattered across the landscape, to discuss the matter of the acute and painful vulnerability of his soul.

His stammering expressions of concern didn’t get any of the responses he had anticipated.

“Really, Gimli, there’s no need to worry.” Very gently, Frodo scooped his moth-shaped dæmon from its perch amongst his curls. “We’re been perfectly fine for – oh, thirty-five years? He’s tougher than he looks.

Gimli looked at the tiny dæmon in Frodo’s outstretched hand, his heart heavy. It didn’t look _tough_ at all. It could have been spun from fine gossamer threads, weightless, like a handful of cobweb.

“It does not – frighten you?” he said.

“Not especially.” Frodo’s dæmon crawled happily across his palm. “I rather like it.”

“Oh, you – you confounded little creature!” exclaimed Gimli, not sure which of them he was addressing. “I shall never understand why you’d do this – _never_.” He knew little of the secret ways of dæmons, but enough to know that their shape, once chosen, could not be undone.

Frodo withdrew his hand, with his dæmon in it. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Of all the shapes to take,” said Gimli. “I cannot begin to imagine why you’d have one so – so hideously fragile.” 

_Hideously_ had been a poor choice of words. He realised as soon as it had passed his lips, for Frodo’s face dropped.

He covered his dæmon with his other hand, and said, “it’s not as if I had any say in the matter.”

It was on the tip of Gimli’s tongue to argue, for of _course_ Frodo had had a say in the matter – but then it struck him – _had_ he? It struck him, all at once, that he had never asked any Man or Hobbit just how one went about choosing a dæmon-shape. “You – didn’t?”

“Well, no, of course not,” said Frodo.

For a moment neither of them spoke. They stood quietly looking at each other, both of them, Gimli was sure, equally aware that some baffling miscommunication had taken place.

“You don’t get any choice, about how your dæmon settles,” said Frodo at length. “You do know that – don’t you?”

“I did not know,” Gimli confessed. “I fear I must have made a foolish assumption many years ago.”

“That’s alright.” Frodo did not uncover his dæmon. “These things happen.”

“If I may ask.” Gimli cleared his throat, and asked, as politely as he could, “why the moth?”

“Ah,” said Frodo. “You truly don’t know how dæmons settle?”

“I truly don’t,” said Gimli. “I’m very sorry.”

“No no, it’s alright,” said Frodo. “I’m just not used to having to explain.” He uncupped his hands and looked at his own, strange dæmon. “You see, it just sort of happens – as you get older. Your dæmon finds the right shape and stays in it.”

“But how do you know which is the right shape?” Gimli eyed Frodo’s dæmon anxiously as it crawled about on his hand.

“Your dæmon’s shape is – well, it’s what _you_ are,” Frodo explained shyly. “On the inside. Boromir’s a wolf and Sam is a dog and Merry is a fox and I’m – well.” He held up his hand, his dæmon clinging upside down to his wrist. “This is me.”

Gimli stroked his beard as he mulled it over. There were a number of aspects of the whole dæmon business that only now made sense. He cursed himself for not simply _asking_ sooner. But then, it had never occurred to him that there was anything to ask about. He’d thought he understood.

And he had said _hideously_.

“Frodo, I fear I’ve insulted you most grievously,” he said. “I can only apologise.”

“That’s alright,” said Frodo.

“It is not _alright_ ,” said Gimli. The full weight of what he had said was sinking in. He didn’t quite understand what he had insulted, but he knew it for something deep and acutely personal.

“You’re hardly the first,” said Frodo. “It bothers people. I’m used to it. Not just the – well, the fragility of it – some people find it a bit spooky.”

“Spooky,” said Gimli. “Why?”

“Well, you know,” said Frodo. “Moths are quiet – and strange – and they live all their lives in the dark.”

“There is nothing _spooky_ about living in the dark,” said Gimli. “My people have always lived in dark, deep places – and we have always found moths quite beautiful.” He addressed Frodo’s dæmon, still and quiet on his outstretched hand. “My sincerest apologies. You’re a very lovely lady.”

Frodo’s dæmon fluttered its wings, just the once. In a soft but steady voice it said, “that’s very kind of you to say, but I’m actually a boy.”

“Oh!” said Gimli, flustered even as Frodo’s face creased with laughter. “I’m so very sorry. In that case, you’re a very handsome gentleman.”

“Thank-you,” said the moth-dæmon. “My name is Gentian.”

“Gentian,” Gimli echoed. “It’s an honour to meet you properly.” He met Frodo’s eyes and found them mirthful.

“We’re a funny pair,” Frodo said. “He and I.”

“I can see that,” said Gimli.

With a flick of his wings, Gentian fluttered out of Frodo’s hand, into the air between them.

**Author's Note:**

> Dæmons in this fic:
> 
> **Frodo and Gentian:** [pale tussock moth](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Calliteara_pudibunda#/media/File:Calliteara_pudibunda.jpg).  
> 


End file.
